The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  79

  Kaz lost track of time as she walked. From SBA’s offices, along Cheapside, she wound her way down through the City to the river. She felt frozen and numb and, having lost a night’s sleep, totally enervated, but moving, putting one foot in front of the other, seemed to help.

  When the paramedics had arrived they’d given Nicci oxygen, wrapped her in a silver space blanket and whisked her away to the A&E at the Royal London. She was in deep shock and remained unable to speak. A bruised puncture mark in her neck suggested she’d been injected to knock her out. She was probably still suffering from the effects of the drug.

  Rivlin went with her in the ambulance. Blake waited for the police and took steps to preserve the scene of the crime, although there was considerable doubt as to what follow-up there would be to any investigation.

  Eddie offered to drive Kaz home, but she declined. What had been done to Nicci was a warning, a statement, in case there was any doubt, of what happened to those who crossed Viktor Pudovkin. Kaz felt sick, not with fear but with rage. And there was nowhere for that feeling to go. So she walked.

  Having crossed the river at Southwark Bridge, she took the riverside walk along the South Bank. The tide was high, the choppy waters slapping up against the embankment wall. But Kaz remained oblivious to everything outside her own seething brain. Should she go to the airport, get on a plane, now, tonight? Yes, she should have the sense to do what Nicci hadn’t done. She should run.

  As she passed Westminster Bridge and the back of St Thomas’ Hospital it started to rain, a sudden torrential downpour. In moments she was drenched. Hair plastered to her face, she kept on walking. When she reached Vauxhall Cross, and realized that the brutal post-modernist monstrosity looming over her was the headquarters of MI6, she thought of McCain. She hadn’t understood all the ins and outs of the supposed security operation that, with Blake’s help, he’d been trying to run against Pudovkin. But one thing was clear: it had been about as effective as a fleabite on an elephant.

  Continuing down Nine Elms Lane past the hulk of the old power station, new luxury blocks sprouting around it, she began to feel energized. She’d walked through her exhaustion and onto a calmer plateau. Her anger had risen up from her gut and now it was singing in her ears. In her mind, thoughts were less chaotic and random. Her whole body seemed lighter.

  The rain had eased to a fine drizzle; she was wet but quite warm as she walked through Battersea. She wondered what she should do next. Was there any need to panic? What had happened to Nicci was pretty shocking. But it was designed to terrorize and subdue, and she refused to be intimidated.

  Reaching the apartment block, she greeted the concierge almost cheerfully.

  He smiled. ‘The Russian lady didn’t have her key. I let her in, I hope that’s okay.’

  Irina. She’d totally forgotten about Irina.

  As she unlocked the door and walked into the apartment she called out, ‘Irina!’

  The Russian appeared in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel. ‘Where the fuck you been? We need get ready.’

  ‘Get ready for what?’

  ‘I say you before. Alexei help us. He get for us invite to party.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m quite in the mood for a party, babes.’

  ‘Is birthday of Galina.’

  Kaz was peeling off her sodden jacket; this stopped her in her tracks. ‘Pudovkin’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, sure, his wife.’ Kaz’s obtuseness was irritating to Irina. ‘I say you before, we go and she make things right. No have to run. No peasant house in Spain.’ Irina beamed in the expectation of praise.

  But Kaz couldn’t even manage a smile. She strode into the kitchen, took a mug from the drainer and filled it with water from the tap. Was this a trap or a random coincidence? It was impossible to tell.

  Irina pursued her. ‘Kaz! I fucking do this for you!’

  Drinking down the water, Kaz became aware of her heart pounding in her chest.

  Irina stood in front of her, looking petulant. ‘I fix for you, babes.’

  Kaz stared at her so-called girlfriend. Had she been suckered? Was Irina working for Pudovkin? But why would she? She’d been hiding out with Mika until Kaz rescued her, and she had every reason to hate Pudovkin – her brother Tolya had also been gunned down by his goons.

  ‘I fix. Like I promise.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you.’ Kaz put the empty mug down on the counter with a snap.

  Her head was full once again of Nicci, alive but embalmed in a plastic shroud, fighting for every breath through two tiny straws. Then she thought of Helen, her bloated corpse washed up like a sack of rubbish. And her brother Joey, her beautiful but crazy brother, shot dead in a London street.

  The colour had drained from her cheeks, but she turned to Irina and painted on a smile. ‘Okay, fuck it! We’re going to a party!’

  80

  Alexei was older than Kaz had imagined. Close to forty, with a receding hairline, he had an air of solidity and reliability about him, which was probably what appealed to Irina. He picked them up in a vintage Jaguar XJS; it was a dirty bronze colour with white leather upholstery. In a dinner jacket and a dicky bow, he looked every inch the English gentleman, apart from the Russian accent.

  Kaz and Irina had been through the whole of the latter’s wardrobe to find something suitable for Kaz to wear. Irina favoured a slinky dress and made Kaz try several on. But Kaz settled on sparkly leggings, a silk tunic top and black patent boots. There was no way she was wearing heels. If she needed to, she wanted to be able to run.

  As they pulled up outside the Holland Park mansion, Kaz thought about Joey. The street outside Pudovkin’s house was the spot where her brother and Tolya had died. But on this damp October evening it was full of minders armed with umbrellas and a roster of drivers to valet-park guests’ cars for them.

  Following Irina and Alexei up the steps and through the front door into the palatial hall, Kaz was surprised at how calm she felt. There were waiters with trays of champagne to greet them and a stream of overdressed, over-exuberant partygoers preceding them in a slow procession through several rooms to the huge drawing room at the back of the house.

  The babble of conversation, in English and Russian, swirled around Kaz. Irina was holding Alexei’s hand and chatting animatedly to him in their own language. Kaz felt like a gooseberry; her fantasy of a life with Irina was, she realized, just that.

  The only girl and the youngest in the family, Irina had grown up petted and protected by her brothers. She was flirtatious with everyone, that was her nature. But she was also a user.

  Kaz knew her declaration of love to the Russian had been foolish. And was it even true? She’d wanted to rescue Irina, certainly. But was that necessarily the same thing as being in love? Since Helen Warner’s death she’d felt so lonely. And when she’d lost Joey, too, a chasm had opened up in her life. She stood alone on a precipice. Ordinary happiness felt out of reach. Had the pain of too much loss simply left her cold-hearted? She wondered about that.

  In the drawing room, Galina Pudovkin was holding court. Guests were queuing to wish her a happy birthday. The gifts and cards she received were handed over to her assistant, who piled them on a table. As they waited their turn, Kaz speculated on what you could possibly give a billionaire’s wife for her birthday. Alexei was carrying a small gift-wrapped box. Perhaps it was the thought that counted.

  They moved into pole position and Alexei stepped forward to air-kiss their hostess. The process struck Kaz as something akin to meeting royalty. Smiles, some chat in Russian, Irina was introduced and embraced.

  Then Alexei drew Kaz forward. ‘And this is our good friend, Karen.’

  Kaz beamed. ‘Happy birthday.’

  Galina’s eyes flickered briefly over her. If she had any clue at all as to who Kaz was, she gave no hint of it. She tossed her silky mane and her smile was toothy and wide. ‘I love London so much. New English friends are always welcome.’ And that was it, audience
over; they moved on.

  In the adjoining dining room a huge buffet had been laid out. Chefs were serving guests and plates were piled high. Kaz soon got fed up with trailing around after Irina and Alexei. Any pretence that Galina would be asked to intercede with her husband on Kaz’s behalf seemed to have been abandoned. As they made for the food, Kaz hung back and, letting them go, drifted off into the crowd.

  Why had she even agreed to come? She wasn’t sure she knew any more. To please Irina? To get a closer look at the man who’d created such mayhem in her life? Maybe to finish the job her brother had started?

  As she wandered among some of the richest people in London, she felt oddly serene. The fact she could walk in here undetected showed there was a chink in the impenetrable armour of wealth in which a man like Pudovkin encased himself. You couldn’t exactly frisk all your VIP mates at the door, it would be rude. So if they were HNWIs like you, courtesy obliged you to trust them.

  At a rough estimate Kaz reckoned there were about a hundred guests milling around; designer frocks and ostentatious jewellery abounded. They were served by an army of waiters and kept safe by a dozen men in dark suits with earpieces. She strolled through several rooms on the lookout for Pudovkin himself. Having been introduced to him once by Yevgeny, she wondered if he would recognize her. There didn’t appear to be any sign of him, although his two children were dashing around and playing tag with some playmates of their own age.

  An obese, rather drunken Russian was eyeing her lasciviously. When he started to follow her, Kaz returned to the dining room to get some food. The aromas wafting up from the tables reminded her that she hadn’t eaten for quite a while. The delicate flavour combinations and artistry of the offerings were designed to excite even the most jaded palate. Kaz couldn’t put a name to half the items on her plate, but she tucked in with relish.

  As she ate, she continued to scan the room. That was when she saw him. Robert Hollister was standing in the doorway to the drawing room and staring straight at her. Their eyes met and for a full fifteen seconds he held her gaze. The expression of surprise on his face turned to disgust and fury as he glared at the slag who’d ruined his life. Then he turned and grabbed the sleeve of one of the security men standing nearby.

  The security man was a large black guy. He bent his head to listen to Hollister, who gestured in Kaz’s direction. Dumping her plate on the nearest table, Kaz didn’t hang around to see more. She slipped seamlessly through the throng and out into a corridor. Waylaying a passing waiter, she asked where the toilets were. He pointed up a flight of stairs. She ran up them two at a time, turned into the upstairs hallway and waited a moment. Cautiously peering back round the corner, she glanced down the staircase. The security man and Hollister were below, searching.

  Ducking back, she continued down the hall until she came to a door with a printed notice in Cyrillic script tacked to it; she assumed this was the toilet. She opened the door and found herself in a small but luxurious bathroom. It had another door, which led to what looked like a guest bedroom. Having locked both doors, she dropped her diamanté clutch bag on the floor and pulled off her tunic top. Taped to the small of her back, with its muzzle tucked into the waistband of her leggings, was the Sig P220 she’d retrieved from the safe deposit box. She’d brought this as a precaution. Having seen what Pudovkin’s thugs had done to Nicci, she didn’t fancy getting caught by them.

  Ripping off the tape, she removed the gun and suppressor, clicked the magazine release, checked the cartridges were loaded and snapped the magazine back into the heel of the pistol. She put her tunic on again, screwed the suppressor on to the barrel, slipped the gun into her clutch bag and tucked it under her arm.

  She could hear approaching footfalls in the hall. Unlocking the bathroom door, she went through into the guest bedroom, locked the connecting door behind her and waited. The door to the bathroom opened and then shut again. The footfalls retreated.

  Counting in her head calmed the butterflies in her stomach and gave her focus. When she got to two hundred she opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall. The last person she’d expected to see at the party was Robert Fucking Hollister. Surely he’d been arrested. Maybe he was out on bail. Still, seeing him there, socializing with these rich tossers and acting as though it was business as usual, incensed her deeply.

  Her pulse racing, mainly from anger, she strode down the hall, hoping to find another way out. Turning a corner she saw them before they noticed her. Pudovkin – she was sure it was him – was standing in an open doorway.

  In front of him was an agitated Hollister. ‘We had a deal, Viktor.’

  ‘Calm down, my friend.’ The Russian patted his shoulder. ‘If you are right, Jerome will find her and sort it out.’

  ‘I know I’m—’

  ‘Yeah, actually he is.’

  Both men spun round at the sound of her voice. Kaz was holding the Sig at arm’s length, grasping it lightly with both hands and pointing it straight at them.

  She walked slowly towards them. ‘What’s in there?’

  A sardonic smile curled Pudovkin’s lip. ‘My study.’

  ‘Go in. Slowly!’

  Hollister looked petrified as Kaz came right up to him and held the gun to his head. ‘You too.’

  Pudovkin moved into the room and Kaz shoved Hollister after him. It was furnished in the style of an executive office suite with a large glass desk, several computers and a lot of leather and chrome.

  She nudged the door closed with her foot. ‘Put your hands behind your heads.’

  Hollister complied immediately. He was shaking.

  The Russian took his time. ‘Have you thought this through, Karen? This room is of course covered by CCTV cameras, so within about two, three minutes at most, there’ll be an armed response.’

  It was a ridiculous question. Of course she hadn’t thought it through. It was an impulsive gut reaction and, even though she was pressing the muzzle of the gun into Hollister’s temple, she was already regretting it. ‘How come you’ve invited this paedo to your party?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? All the charges against Robert have been dropped.’

  Kaz dragged Hollister by his collar until she’d positioned herself, back to the wall and facing the door. She had no choice now but to play the scene out. In a couple of minutes she’d probably be dead. But there was a part of her that didn’t care. With any luck, she’d have the satisfaction of taking this scumbag with her. That would be something at least, some payback for Helen.

  The sweat was pouring off him. ‘Don’t shoot me, I’m begging you. I didn’t have Helen killed. He did.’

  Pudovkin chuckled. ‘I think we would agree on one thing, Karen: he is a gutless individual.’

  ‘And you’re not? You just have others do your dirty work.’ It was surprising to her how very calm she felt.

  ‘Now, yes. But I spent many years in the field before perestroika. Anyone can kill in anger, but to look into someone’s eyes and execute them in cold blood, that’s a talent. Could you do it?’

  ‘My brother could. I’m not like him, though. I may be a killer, but I’m not a murderer.’

  ‘That’s an interesting distinction.’ The Russian seemed to be musing on this notion. Or was he merely waiting? They both knew the clock was ticking.

  And all her senses were heightened. Her eyes darted about, noticing everything: the warm pool of light from the desk lamp, the texture of the paint on the Picasso hanging on the wall. Time stretched and she realized how fluid it was, not absolute at all. Did everyone’s life end like this, with a burst of feelings and impressions?

  It was all over in less than a minute. The door inched open, then was flung back. Jerome stood there brandishing a gun.

  ‘Shoot them both!’ Pudovkin barked his order.

  As Jerome fired, Kaz propelled Hollister forward to shield herself. Jerome’s first two shots struck the politician in the chest and neck. In the same instant the Sig’s double action pumped two b
ullets into Jerome’s gut. Raising and steadying her arm, Kaz’s third shot struck him in the centre of the forehead. He went down with a heavy thud.

  Flinging Hollister’s inert body aside she swung round towards Pudovkin. As soon as the shooting started he’d gone for the filing cabinet drawer behind him. Hauling it open, he pulled out a gun.

  His arm came up to shoot but she jumped sideways as they both fired. His bullet whizzed past her head, hers tore into his shoulder and he was thrown backwards to the floor.

  Taking two strides forward, she stood over him. Clutching his shoulder, he uttered a curse in Russian.

  Then he looked up at her. ‘You stupid bitch, you’ll never get out of here.’

  Her nerve endings were singing. The serenity she felt was blissful. It was the thrill of still being alive. Would he beg? She doubted it, although she could smell his fear.

  ‘Maybe I do have the talent. Let’s see, shall we?’

  Her dark eyes locked onto his and pointing the pistol at his forehead she squeezed the trigger and fired. Blood sprayed up and out in a fine mist.

  Wiping her face with her sleeve she glanced around and took stock. Hollister was dead, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Jerome’s corpse blocked the doorway. Stepping over it, she peered out. The hall was empty. Music drifted upwards from the famous string quartet playing in the drawing room below. Sliding the gun into her bag, she tucked the bag under her arm and walked away.

  EPILOGUE

  DI Tom Rivlin met Kaz Phelps at the main entrance. Both felt awkward; he offered her his hand.

  She shook it. ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Good, I think. She’s hyper-vigilant. Gets really bad nightmares. But the trauma specialist thinks she’s doing well.’

  Nicci Armstrong had been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and admitted to the Nightingale in Marylebone, a private acute mental health hospital; Simon Blake was picking up the bill.